


Deserving

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anxiety, Body Image, Dom Crowley (Good Omens), Don't copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Human AU, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Lovers, Light Angst, M/M, Romance, just the ramblings of an ineffable bdsm expert, sex worker Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:15:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25807984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: Aziraphale is lonely, starved for touch, but with no prospects looming anywhere on the horizon, he decides to call in a professional.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 78
Kudos: 258





	Deserving

**Author's Note:**

> This one-shot is a partial re-working of another story I wrote for a different fandom. I am open to writing more parts to this one if there's enough interest. In which case, the rating would bump up to E :)

“I get paid by the hour, first hour upfront, as outlined in my email,” the man says, strolling through Aziraphale’s bookshop as if he owns it, pulling back curtains covering the windows that Aziraphale doesn’t want to admit he closed on purpose before the man arrived. As sun floods the room, Aziraphale’s fingers curl nervously into fists at his side. With the shop brightly lit, the man can see _everything_ _._

The mess that defines Aziraphale thru and thru.

He’s getting the same first impression everyone else does, and it’s not the greatest.

It’s not the shop Aziraphale worries about him seeing, even though the place is considered a shambles by most people - cluttered, dusty, punctuated by cold spots galore and dreary corners that smell vaguely of stale breath. But Aziraphale likes his shop creepy and musty.

It’s his armor, keeps potential customers from nosing around too long.

Critics, too.

He’s gotten offers on more than one occasion to have the place inspected for ghosts by TV shows that promote such poppycock, but Aziraphale adamantly refuses. If ghosts are real, they’ve never bothered him any, ergo it would be rude to have someone come poking along into their privacy with a hand held intent on exposing them and, ultimately, evicting them. As long as they aren’t interested in buying anything and they don’t mess around with the first editions, Aziraphale doesn’t mind ghosts hanging about.

Besides, being on TV might bring in business, make Aziraphale popular, which is the last thing on Earth he wants.

No, it’s not the bookshop that Aziraphale would rather this man not see. It’s the _him -_ the _all_ of him: a pudgy, lonely, past-his-prime man who hasn’t made an honest connection with anyone since the dawn of time.

“Oh …” The man turns his head to peek at Aziraphale over his shoulder “… but you said you’re not all that fond of email, right? Or texting?”

“N---no, I’m not,” Aziraphale stammers, fingers tapping at his thighs as the anxiety in his brain spreads to the rest of his body. “But I did get your message. And I understand …”

“But?” the man infers, taking his time examining the view out the largest of the windows, which overlooks one of the busiest streets in Soho. The man chuckles, probably seeing the same irony that everyone does once they get to know Aziraphale for longer than a couple of minutes - that a shopkeeper who detests customers and the thought of anyone coming in to make a purchase managed to not only secure the most prime retail spot in this neighborhood, but kept it regardless.

Aziraphale inherited his bookshop. He’s a sentimental man. It’s difficult for him to give things up, which is why he doesn’t like parting with his books. And they are _his_ books until someone gives him a good enough reason to relinquish one. He never thought he’d find anything he’d enjoy looking at as much as his books until this man walked through his door – handsome, refined, wearing an air of debonair sophistication and a designer suit, the long line of his back straight and strong, his face positively sculpted, the soft sweep of his flaming red hair a work of art. He could be an actor, or a model, in Aziraphale’s humble opinion. Either way, he’s too good for this.

Too good for Aziraphale, and what Aziraphale is paying him to do.

“But I’m beginning to think …” Aziraphale swallows so hard it hurts his chest “… that perhaps I am wasting your time.”

The man looks over his shoulder again, lowering his nose to peek over his sunglasses and fix Aziraphale with unique amber eyes - piercing eyes, afflicted with some sort of defect as they appear mildly feline. But that matters not an inch. They’re just as captivating as the rest of him.

“Is there something wrong with me?” he asks – not self-consciously but matter-of-factly. “Because if there is, I can refer you to someone who might suit you better.”

“No!” Aziraphale blurts, incredulous. Wrong with _him_? How in the world could he think there’s anything wrong with _him_? This man, strutting away from the windows to join Aziraphale, looked like someone out of a high-end fashion magazine. Aziraphale didn’t think that men like him existed in real life, but here he was, stepping out of the shadows of a vivid daydream. “It’s … it’s not that. It’s not that at all. I mean, you’re … you’re …” Aziraphale stumbles through adjectives, his mind cluttered with his own insecurities and self-doubts, unable to navigate the words that identify those feelings to find one that comes close to defining this man. Aziraphale fancies himself a scholar. He attended Oxford. He’s lectured at Cambridge. He’s co-authored many texts surrounding the subject of literary prose and its usage. But the only word his mind can conjure to describe this man is “… perfect.”

The man grins, halting a few feet away from Aziraphale with his arms crossed. “Well, if I’m _perfect_ , then what’s the problem?”

“I … I would have to say that … you know … _I’m_ the problem … Sir.”

“I see.” The man standing before Aziraphale doesn’t come across as smug nor condescending. He’s simply confident. And his confidence isn’t an act. He wears it like his skin, probably one of the reasons he’s so good at what he does, why he comes so highly recommended. Aziraphale wishes he could have a bit of that confidence. Completely dressed for work in slacks, a button-down shirt, a waistcoat, and an overcoat to boot, Aziraphale still feels vulnerable.

Naked.

“Anthony. Until we get things started, you can call me Anthony. Or Mr. Crowley if you simply must be formal.”

“Anthony,” Aziraphale repeats against his better judgement since it seems sacrilege to call this imposing man anything but _Sir_.

“That’s right,” Anthony approves, his tone softer. “So why do you think you’re the problem, Aziraphale?” He must immediately notice Aziraphale’s discomfort with that question because he switches gears, asking a different one in a blink. “Better yet – why don’t you tell me what you know about BDSM.” He gestures to a sofa in an adjoining room, following Aziraphale there when he gets the hint and sits down. “Give me a little insight into what about it appeals to you.”

“I don’t know much,” Aziraphale admits, sitting primly, folding his hands in his lap. “I only know what I’ve read.”

“On the Internet?”

“In books mostly.” Aziraphale’s gaze sweeps over the stacks and piles around them. The outside observer probably wouldn’t guess that a wealth of bawdy material lay hidden between the leather-bound classics. But it’s there, and Aziraphale has read every word of it. “Plus a teensy bit on a website called Tumblr.”

“Ah,” Anthony says, a thread of sympathy in his tone that indicates he knows exactly what types of blogs Aziraphale has been visiting, what pictures and gifs he’s seen, and why they might make him feel like he - so very fond of his books and his shop, soft around the edges, mostly content to sit behind a locked door and re-read the same novel fifteen times than venture out of doors and explore the city – isn’t good enough to participate in Anthony’s world.

“A dear friend of mine introduced me to it,” Aziraphale fills in in the silence. “She’s … you know … like _you_ …”

“A red head?”

“Ah … n-no.” Aziraphale tames his laughter, keeps it confined to his throat. “A Dominant. And I’ve been to …” He clears his throat, lowers his volume as if someone might be listening “… _workshops._ But they made me uncomfortable. So I thought that maybe a one-on-one experience would work better in my case.”

“Why did they make you uncomfortable?”

“I … I didn’t want other people to know that I was interested in this.”

“Because they might judge you?”

“In a way.”

“Was anyone you knew in those workshops?”

“No.”

“Did anyone you know know you were going to them?”

“Well …” Aziraphale wiggles uncomfortably in his seat, unaccustomed as he is to interrogation “… my friend, but she recommended them.”

“So what was the issue?”

Aziraphale is taken aback by how to the point Anthony is. The man definitely does not beat around any bushes. “It’s the people in the classes. They weren’t like me …” He wraps his arms subconsciously around his torso, tight around his middle “… and I didn’t want them to know …”

“… that you want this?”

“I …” Aziraphale didn’t realize how crimson his cheeks had gone till he catches a glimpse of himself in a nearby mirror, but the more he reveals, the hotter they become. “Yes,” he says quietly, ashamed of his cowardice. Mischief twinkles behind Anthony’s eyes hearing Aziraphale admit this, and Aziraphale expects Anthony to laugh at him, chide him for behaving immaturely the way most people he’s confided in do, with the exception of Madame Tracy, who has been instrumental to getting him to this point.

So many of the blog posts he’s read and the chat rooms he’s participated in have told him that if he can’t ask for something he wants, he doesn’t deserve to get it. That seemed cruel to him at first, but the more people berated him, the more he found himself agreeing.

If he can’t stand up for himself, then he deserves what he gets.

Or what he doesn’t.

What Anthony says next is worse than those posts, those chat room insults, because it hits the nail on the head, bares the roots of his feelings to light.

“Because you don’t think you deserve it. You don’t think you deserve to find pleasure this way … or at all?”

“M---maybe,” Aziraphale answers in a shaky voice. He tries to laugh it off. “To be honest, I … I’m not even sure _why_ I want this.”

“Yes, you are,” Anthony says, inching closer. “You may not want to admit it, but you do. And believe me when I tell you, you’re not alone.” He pauses, gauging Aziraphale’s level of comfort with his proximity. When Aziraphale doesn’t back away, Anthony comes in closer, keeping the focus of his gaze on Aziraphale’s eyes. “It’s difficult, in’t? Living during a time where people prize what you look like over who you are? Judge your worth by the size of the box you fit into? Which is sad considering there’s only one time in our lives when that will be a worry, and you’re not there yet … are you?” Anthony waits for an answer, but when he can see Aziraphale is too overwhelmed to give him one, he continues. “But other people’s remarks have shit-all to do with you and everything to do with them. You can’t let small-minded, soft-brained ignorants define you. Only you can do that, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale’s head shakes slowly side to side. “I … I don’t think I know how.”

“Start by declaring your independence from stupid people and their opinions. Take control. Indulge in the things you want for yourself without apology or shame.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes drift to his hands still locked around his belly. “But if I go through with this, if I submit to you, aren’t I giving up control?”

“It may seem that way, but in BDSM, the submissive shares a majority of the control. I may want something, something I’m convinced will make you feel good, but unless I clear it with you beforehand, I can’t do it. I can’t force anything on you. And once we begin, you have the power to stop things at any time, as do I. We’ll be equals in this arrangement more than you realize.” Anthony raises a hand, palm hovering over Aziraphale’s leg an inch or two above his knee. “May I?”

Aziraphale stares at his hand, momentarily confused, but when he realizes that Anthony is asking for permission to touch him, he nods … and holds his breath. The last person to touch Aziraphale’s leg was his physical therapist after an unfortunate run in with gravity while Aziraphale was stocking shelves sent him to A&E with a sprained knee. Charlie was an exceptionally kind man, a _sexy_ man, but they had a strictly professional relationship. The way Charlie touched Aziraphale was nurturing, comforting, invigorating even, but it was nothing like this. It never turned him on, even though there were times Aziraphale prayed it would. He would have had to change therapists after, no question. There would have been no way he could have looked the man in the eyes again. But it would have been worth it for one moment of arousal.

It’d been so long - so _excruciatingly_ long - Aziraphale didn’t even know if it was possible for him to get it up anymore.

As Anthony’s hands make their way to Aziraphale’s hips, he discovers that, apparently, it is.

There’s a sensuality in Anthony’s touch that he exudes effortlessly while he kneads Aziraphale’s muscles. A tenderness, too. Anthony has experience. He knows how to touch, and he isn’t apprehensive about doing it. It’s magical this intuition he has. Underneath Anthony’s talented fingers, Aziraphale doesn’t feel lesser, unattractive, or ashamed.

And he doesn’t feel alone.

“You deserve to be touched, Aziraphale. You deserve romance. You deserve wild, passionate, abandon … like in your books.” Anthony tilts his head to catch Aziraphale’s eyes glued to his hands for dear life. “Do you believe me?”

“I … I guess.” Nervousness splits Aziraphale’s voice. “It’s just difficult for me to think of myself that way.”

“What way?” Anthony’s voice drops to a whisper. “As the sexual creature you are?” His eyes flick to Aziraphale’s mouth as he licks his own lips, then return to his eyes. Aziraphale chews his lower lip in response, bites back an urge to smile ridiculously.

Is Anthony flirting with him?

Of course he is! Aziraphale scolds himself before he can let himself fall too deeply under Anthony’s spell. Aziraphale is paying him to act a certain way, make him feel a certain way.

That doesn’t make it any less potent.

It doesn’t make Aziraphale feel, in this singular moment, any less desired.

But Anthony could still be attracted to Aziraphale, couldn’t he? They _are_ about to have sex. Would Anthony enter into this arrangement with him if he found Aziraphale repulsive? The fine print on the contract Aziraphale signed electronically said that Anthony reserved the right to refuse service at any time for any reason. Could lack of attraction be one of those reasons? Or is that something he could knuckle through if he had to?

“Aziraphale, your body belongs to you. You deserve to enjoy it. You deserve to have someone else enjoy it with you … enthusiastically … genuinely …” Anthony stops massaging Aziraphale’s left leg in favor of taking his hand, pulling it away from where it’s been protectively hiding Aziraphale’s stomach. Anthony lifts it to his lips and kisses it – knuckles first, then the fingers, lingering on the sensitive web of flesh in between. His next words seep into Aziraphale’s trembling skin, send a tingle up Aziraphale’s spine that spreads fire everywhere it touches. “You deserve to do what you want with it.”

Anthony continues to kiss a trail down one finger and up the next. When he gets to Aziraphale’s thumb, he turns his hand over to plant a kiss in his palm, then another on his wrist. Aziraphale closes his fingers around the kiss in his left hand as Anthony reaches for his right.

“Then, for the next few hours” - Aziraphale shudders when Anthony’s lips connect with a new patch of skin, his tongue chasing it - “I’m handing it over to you.”


End file.
